


Aperture Priority

by ArtsyAfrodite, orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, M/M, Model Ian, Modeling, Multi, Past Abuse, Photographer Mickey, Photography, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:03:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4048972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's heard of Mickey Milkovich before.  <i>The guy with the eye.</i>  After all the praise, Ian definitely didn’t expect to meet an undoubtedly, fellow Southsider.    </p><p>No auto-focusing, no unnecessary flash - no blown out details.  A Photography AU where Mickey's a photographer, and Ian's a new model, taken more by him than his camera's angle of view.  What happens when the eyes become the aperture priority, and everything in the background becomes blurred?  You focus on the person in front of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank my co-author, Nuria (mrsenneshaw on Tumblr) for helping this fic idea come to life. It's been awhile in the making (and still underway), and now that we have a few chapters down, we felt it was no better time than now to start posting. I won't say much more, other than I hope you enjoy this simple concept of a photography AU, which will come with all the trappings and complexities of manual exposure. :))

For as long as he can remember, he always saw the world in analogue form, the perception of things only mattering when he could view the grime around him through an optical lens.  Even the filthiest cracks and crevices of the Southside bloomed things unknown to the naked eye that a camera always brought to the surface.  It made all of the ugly shit bearable – even beautiful. 

He remembers when he was thirteen, his brother Iggy picked up skateboarding one summer, not that he was even interested.  He did it to impress the new chick down the block who obviously had a thing for skater boys.  Feeling overzealous, Iggy tried to hit a line on a grinding pole and face planted into the cement.  He chipped a tooth, busted his lip and nearly broke his nose.  Blood was everywhere, but he was smiling.  _Fucking smiling._   Because the new girl flipped her hair as she walked by, laughing out a, “Gnarly,” as she eyed him with approval.  It was a win in Iggy’s book and one in Mickey’s as well.  He’d snapped a picture of his bloodied brother with the vintage Zenit he always carried around.  It was a gift from his mother.

When he develops the film, everything finally makes sense and something _clicks_.  It’s the most fucked up, yet captivating photo of Iggy, bloody, scraped up and bruised – but his ego remains unscathed as he smiles through it all, flipping the bird at the camera.  It’s the first time Mickey experiences what could be constituted as true love, or at least a prototype. 

From this day on, his camera never leaves his side.   

*

The first time Ian holds a gun in his hands, he is thirteen and it’s his first day at ROTC training.  It gives him a sense of power he hasn’t felt in a long time.  A year earlier he and his siblings’ bipolar mother, Monica, showed up and dropped off another baby.  She always drops them off, pretends like this time she’s going to be the mother they need, but in the end she always runs off again.  This time she stayed for a while and tore their family apart before disappearing again.  She introduced them to Clayton, their father’s brother and Ian’s biological father.  

He got custody over Ian and since the day he moved out, all control and power Ian had ever felt in his life vanished.

 

_“I’ll miss you little bro,” Lip whispers into Ian’s ear as he hugs him tight.  Ian squeezes his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay and claps Lip on the back before letting go.  Fiona is sobbing and pulls him into the hundredth hug since Clayton announced that he would take Ian to live with him.  She holds him close, her tears soaking the shoulder of his sweater._

_She doesn’t want to let him go._

_Debbie and Carl are sitting on the couch, wide-eyed and confused about what is going on.  Their older brother is carrying a big duffle bag and a strange man is standing at the door waiting for him.  The man is tall and has red hair like Ian and Debbie knows they belong together somehow.  Fiona tried to explain it to them the night before, that Frank is not Ian’s father and that his real father would take care of him now.  Debbie asked if that meant that Ian wasn’t their brother anymore but Fiona smiled and told her that no, Ian was still their brother._

_Ian walks over to hug them as well before he has to go.  He tucks a loose strand of hair behind Debbie’s ear and smiles. “Only six months Debs. I’m back in July.”_

_“Promise?” Debbie asks when Ian is almost out of the door.  He turns around and nods._

_“Promise.”_

 

Ian keeps his promise.  He comes back every summer, and each time he tells Lip about ROTC, the Army and the money he could get from them.  He found a dream, something not many people from the Southside can say about themselves.

When he is sixteen, his friend and fuck buddy Blake asks him why he wants to fight for this piece of shit country.

“Maybe I’m patriotic,” Ian says.

Blake huffs out a laugh and pulls his shirt over his head. “Patriotic for a country that thinks you’re one of God’s biggest mistakes?”

Ian stands up and shoves Blake’s shoulder.  He grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head.  “Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”

Blake rolls his eyes.  He zips up his hoodie and crosses his arms. “You always been so _patriotic_?”

Ian looks at him for a moment, contemplating whether to be honest or keep with the excuse.  _Not saying is always easier_.  Hands in the pockets of his camo pants, he shrugs.  “ROTC was a way to get out of my father’s house at first.  His wife doesn’t like me.  Proof of his mistake, you know?”  Blake nods.  “I got into it, got good. The Army gives you a lot of money too and my family needs it.”

“Your Southside family?” Blake asks.  Ian nods.  With a sigh Blake puts a hand on Ian’s shoulder and shakes him a bit.  “There are other ways to make money than to die or get paralyzed.  But if this is your dream, go ahead.  Tomorrow same time, same place?”

Ian nods again and watches Blake walk out from under the bleachers.  He doesn’t understand what ROTC means to Ian, because he doesn’t have a dream.  Blake doesn’t care about the future because he doesn’t know what it’s like not to have money, likely never will know.  People at Ian’s school will never have to worry about empty stomachs or sleeping in three layers of clothing because the money didn’t stretch far enough for heat.  People at Ian’s school have their futures planned; they can go to any University they want to go to.  _Options_.

Not only is the Army Ian’s way to help his family, but most of all it’s a way to be independent.  Blake doesn’t understand him, because he doesn’t _need_ a dream.

So is he Patriotic?  _Maybe_.  Ian just knows he needs to be.

*

He tries his best to focus on the smoldering cigarette in front of him, squints his swollen eye and follows the smoke from the cherry on the tip.  A bit of ash falls to the living room floor and joins the rest that’s already collected there.  The hand holding the cigarette is asleep, so it’s any minute before the nicotine falls, goes to waste.  _Snap._

Mickey finally takes the picture of the cigarette hanging loosely from Terry’s hand as he lies asleep on the couch, mouth gaped open wide and spit gathered in the corner.  The sonofabitch is sure to start a fire one day, burn this shithole down.  His fingernails are filthy and there’s dried blood smeared across his knuckles.  A temptation creeps into the base of Mickey’s spine as he watches his father unconscious, high out of his mind – he’s a second away from jamming the end of the lit cigarette into his eye.  It would make them even for the black eye he gave him an hour ago.  _An eye for an eye._

But who is he kidding?  He knows he wouldn’t retaliate on Terry if he had the chance, the poor, pathetic excuse for a father only an eighth of the man he strives to be ten times better than.  He was always high and violent, or sober and stupid.  When he wasn’t using drugs, he was using Mickey as a punching bag.  Needless to say it got worse when he told Terry he wanted to be a photographer.

_“What?  Taking fucking pictures?” Terry growls after sniffing the last white line off of the broken mirror.  He snaps his head up after Mickey doesn’t answer, practically jumping over the coffee table to hem him up.  “No son of mine is gonna waste his time with a stupid fucking camera.”_

So now Mickey hides his gift, takes pictures of random things in secret.  Except for today, Terry caught him taking photos of all the empty vodka and beer bottles gathered around their dirty trash can.  He took Mickey snapping a photo of their “filth” as an insult, punched him straight in the eye then turned around and asked him for cash while he was icing it.  He was tweaking.

_“This is for your own good son.  Guys with cameras don’t get far ‘round here.  They don’t get shit.”  Terry twitches and scans Mickey up and down, his eyes never landing on his son’s rapidly swelling eye.  “Gimme some cash,” he snarls out as Mickey holds a pack of frozen peas over his eye._

Mickey snaps another photo, this time a close up of Terry’s face.  His mouth is twisted and ugly – just like his soul, or what’s left of it.  He doesn’t even care about the loud clicking noise the camera makes because he knows his dad is too fucking high to even feel an earthquake.  He takes another photo, and another.  _Snap…snap…snap._ Mickey smiles to himself.  Terry would have his head if he knew what he was doing.  He stands over his father and nearly takes the cigarette to smear it across his face.

But he’s got enough payback in all of the film he’s going to develop with unsolicited photos of his father.  It’s the perfect _fuck you_.

*

_“Bipolar Disorder.”_

Ian just stares at the doctor on the other side of the desk.  He’s old, with full grey hair, and round glasses that sit on his crooked nose.  He doesn’t wear doctor’s clothes though.  He wears suits.  Since the first time Ian sat down with him a few weeks ago, the doctor has only worn suits, dull and lackluster like his hair.  Ian doesn’t understand how he can be a doctor without wearing the classic white tunic – he doesn’t trust him.  When he thinks about it though, he doesn’t care.  He just doesn’t want to think about the doctor’s words.

_“Bipolar Disorder.”_

They already expected it, that Russian Roulette Lip always warned them about.  Ian was lucky enough to get the bullet.  Now, to everyone else this means medication and visits with the doctor that doesn’t look like one and being mindful of his moods.  But for Ian it means the end of his dream; it means the end of his independence; it means the loss of control.  For Ian, it’s the end of the world, at least for a while.

He learns to deal with it over the years, learns to accept help and to live by a schedule.  He realizes that he’s still himself.  So he finds the determination to live again.

He just has to find a new dream.

*

“Shit, those are really good man.”

Mandy scowls, shoves her skirt down and gives Mickey the stink-eye.  She was just getting hot and heavy with the college guy she met at the diner she’s working at, until Mickey decided to barge into the house and throw down a bunch of developed black and white photos and a few proofs rudely onto the coffee table.  The guy is crushing on her brother’s work and it makes her want to gag.

Mickey looks at him and shrugs nonchalantly.  “They’re ok, I guess.”

“They’re awesome,” the college guy beams.  Horny and annoyed, Mandy shoves his calf muscle with her toe, and motions her head to her bedroom.  He frowns.  “Just, a sec, ok?” he pleads with her.

“I thought you wanted to get laid,” Mandy blurts out bluntly.

Mickey snorts as the random jerks his head back as if shocked.  “I-Ido,” he breathes out, “wow, you’re straight forward.”

“Gotta be,” Mandy responds.  “And your hand up my skirt tells me you are too.  So are we doin’ this, or are you gettin’ too much of a hard on from my brother’s amateur pictures?”

“Ay, fuck you,” Mickey bites.

“No, fuck you!” Mandy counters.  “You could’ve gone to your room and laid that shit down in there, quietly, but no.  This ain’t no Polaroid party.”

Mickey flips her the bird and grabs his photos off of the coffee table.  “Polaroid?” he huffs indignantly.   “Not my style.  And how ‘bout you take that shit to your room?”

“We will,” she responds as she flips him the bird back.

Mickey tucks his work under his arm.  Never in a million years would he have laid that shit openly on the table in fear of Terry seeing them.  But his dad was in jail now, doing some time for armed robbery.  He begins to walk towards his room, but stops when the college guy speaks again.

“I’m actually a photography student at the University of Chicago,” the guy reveals.  “My name is Sully if you ever wanna stop by the photography studio on campus and look around.  I’m always there.  You could bring some of your work.”

Mickey stops dead in his tracks, feels something tug at the bottom of his chest.  It’s too tempting, but he knows he can’t do that shit.  There’s no way he’d ever fit in on a college campus, those yuppie fucks with their khakis and plaid button ups.  He glances over his shoulder, barely acknowledges Sully.  “Whatever,” Mickey huffs out, seemingly uninterested.

But he doesn’t say no.

*

It’s a slow Thursday evening and Ian is cleaning glasses behind the bar when a man comes in.  He works the bar at a place in Chicago now, having moved out of Clayton’s house a year ago.  His colleagues are pleasant enough.  The mysterious man stares at Ian until he puts the glass down, slings the rag over his shoulder, and leans his hands onto the counter.

“Hello Sir, how can I help you?”

“So formal,” the greying man says and reaches his hand out, “call me Ned.” Ian nods, shakes his hand, and repeats his question.  “You’re pretty,” Ned says instead of an answer and earns a suspicious smile from Ian.

“Thanks,” Ian plays nice, “can I get you a drink?”  Albeit still mourning his old dream of the Army, he likes his job.  His boss would have his ass if he got impatient and insulted a customer.

Ned orders a beer, and as Ian pours it from the tap he gives him a very obvious once over.  However, it doesn’t feel like the usual, _“am I going to fuck this”_ once over, so when he puts the beer down to let it set, he turns back to Ned with a raised eyebrow and a smile.

“You have a good bone structure, nice profile as well,” Ned continues.

Ian huffs out a laugh.  He’s never been one for flattery, but it’s amusing coming from this guy.  He picks up the glass and puts it down in front of Ned.  The older man takes a sip while Ian concentrates on cleaning glasses again.  “You a doctor?”

Ned barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “Used to be actually,” he responds, earning an even more suspicious glance from Ian, “but now I do this.”

“And what’s that?  Telling random guys at bars that they’re pretty?” Ian laughs.  “That some sort of pick-up line?”

“Not unless you want it to be,” Ned responds unabashedly.  He gives Ian a scan again, and this time it’s definitely the _‘am I going to fuck this’_ stare.  “But to answer your question _red_ , I’m a Model Scout and Agent now.”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Red?” he says, obviously in reference to the nickname.  “And modeling?”

Ned nods and points with his pint to Ian.  “Yeah, red,” he smirks as he shoots his eyes to Ian’s hair, “and I think you’d be a great addition to my index.”

Ian laughs and shakes his head.   “I doubt that. I’m no model man.”  Ned shrugs, taking another sip of his beer.

“You sure about that?” the scout continues to press.  “You have the looks and you seem to have the confidence.  I _have_ seen you before.  You know you’re hot.”

Ian feels a blush creep up his neck.   _Modeling_.  That isn’t something he’s ever thought about.  Sure, he’s taken the occasional picture, struck the occasional pose.  Ned is right, Ian is confident and he knows he’s good looking enough to never go home alone, if he doesn’t want to.

But modeling?

Ned downs the rest of his beer and stands up with a knock to the bar.  He pulls out a bill and a card. “Call me, if you want to try it.”

“I don’t know man,” Ian says just as the scout waves and walks off.

But he doesn’t say no.

*

“This is Mickey fucking Milkovich!” Sully practically screams.  Mickey’s got his back to him.  He’s in the zone and can’t turn around now.  He takes a few quick snaps with his camera of the model on the set.  “Guy’s a fucking legend, and yes, I discovered him,” he gloats to someone.  “Mickey turn around, I want you to meet some fresh, new talent.”

Mickey lets out a long breath, stops snapping and gets up off of one knee.  “In the fucking zone Sully,” he huffs, his back still turned.  “You know what that means right?”  Mickey frowns as the model does this really risqué pose and throws up his hand.  “This is for Vanity Fair sweetheart, not Playboy, got it?”  The model gasps, surprised by Mickey’s bluntness.  It’s obviously her first time working with him.

“He’s a character, isn’t he?” Sully continues to talk to the mystery person, “a real asshole, but a genius!”

“So I’ve heard,” the guest says.  It’s a male, definitely, his voice oddly smooth.  It makes Mickey pause, curiosity fucking with his trigger finger.  He and Sully will have a score to settle later about this.  He knows bringing random people to the studio unannounced kills his vibe.

Mickey acquiesces, throws up five fingers at the model.  “Take five,” he yells out to her.  She looks relieved, those Christian Louboutin’s probably causing her feet to scream bloody murder.  After she’s off the set, Mickey finally turns around, an annoyed scowl on his face.  “What the fuck did I tell you about – “

He doesn’t get the rest of his sentence out.

Instead, he nearly drops his $7,000 camera.  Standing next to Sully is a tall red head.  He looks to be about 21-22, and has a naturally defined bone structure even the shittiest camera would adore.  He plays it cool, pretends he isn’t liking the way this guy looks a little too much.  The red head smiles, extends his hand.

“I’m Ian,” he says, “Ian Gallagher.  It’s awesome to finally meet the man behind the genius at Metropolitan Studios.”

Mickey doesn’t shake his hand, just does this half little wave thing and nods his head.  He doesn’t even own this place, Mark does, but people have always known this place was just mediocre before Mickey came along.  Still, he’s never flattered by it.  He doesn’t do flattery. 

Sully rolls his eyes, already used to Mickey’s aloof nature.  “Ian here, is our newest face!” he beams.

“Says who?” Mickey responds coolly. 

This causes a confused look to spread across Sully’s face.  “Um, says the head of Model Scouting and Talent?” he responds.  “This is what I do for you man, the head photographer, remember?  I found Ian through Ned Lishman.”

The name makes Mickey’s face twist into a frown.  “Ned Lishman?” he asks obviously not too thrilled with the name.  “And I haven’t screened him yet,” Mickey says somewhat harshly.  He doesn’t look at Ian, but can tell the guy is frowning.

“Since when do you need to screen the talent I bring in dude?” Sully counters.  “You take one look, and always say you trust me.  We all know Mark doesn’t give a shit, as long as he makes money and as long as you’re takin’ the damn pictures. I mean, look at my track record.”

Sully points to all of the editorial covers hanging up in the studio of their models that Mickey’s photographed. Elle, Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, etc. Mickey lets out a long breath as he looks around the studio.  Not what he envisioned for himself, being surrounded by annoying, hungry models, but it pays the bills.  He looks back at Ian, scans him up and down quickly and folds his arms.

“You ever model?” he asks Ian.

“Uh, just started not too long ago,” Ian responds.

“What do you mean, not too long ago?”

“A few months now.  But I’ve also taken pictures for…other things,” Ian says vaguely, casting his eyes downward quickly before looking back at Mickey. The man is shorter, but twice as intimidating. His knuckles, branded with the phrase _FUCK U-UP_ doesn’t help the ball of nerves his stomach’s become. He sees Mickey scoff, not buying a word he’s saying.  “I can do it.”

“Yeah well, anyone can pose for a picture,” Mickey starts as he turns back around to prepare for the model to return, “but editorial modeling is a whole different ballgame, especially when you’re dealing with me.  Not sure you’re cut out for this.”  He looks down and begins to fidget with his camera, changing the settings.  When he looks up, he nearly drops it again when he sees Ian in the middle of his set, removing his plaid shirt until he’s only in a tank top.

“Let me prove it,” Ian says sternly, his eyes pinned on Mickey and unwavering, “right here, right now.”

Normally, Mickey throws people out for this type of buffoonery, but his trigger finger dances with anticipation and he gives in to the challenge.  The guy has balls, he’ll give him that.  He holds up his camera, and proceeds to get in his zone.  “Alright, let’s see whatcha got,” he says.

And Ian, is somewhat of a natural.

 


	2. He’s So Tom Hardy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey knew it was game over when his boss Mark rolled up his luxurious dress shirt sleeves, and those tattoos peeked out from underneath, not too much to be in your face, but just enough to drive you crazy.  
> He’d licked his lips, lips that were full and rivaled his own, while Mickey showed him a few proofs of the day’s photo shoot when they were alone in the studio one night.

Ian pushes his hands into the pockets of his hoody and makes his way down to the next L station.  It’s September and still warm outside, but a light chill is starting to linger in the air.  He runs his hand through his hair and huffs out a laugh.   _What a day._

He’s heard of Mickey Milkovich before.   _The guy with the eye._   At the studio Ned brought him to for his first photos, they all gushed about  _the_  Mickey Milkovich.  Ned told him the guy had a lot of potential, pretty much saved Metropolitan Studios and its name.  After all the praise, Ian definitely didn’t expect to meet an undoubtedly, fellow Southsider.  

When Sully said,  _“he’s a character, isn’t he?”_  Ian could only agree.  He was harsh, just as brazen as the  _FUCK U-UP_  branded across his knuckles – Ian is both intrigued and blissfully frustrated by him.  He doesn’t know what got into him when he decided to stand up to him.  But Mickey’s dismissive behavior already pushes Ian.  He wants a chance because he’s actually taken a liking to modeling, finds it freeing. He takes Mickey’s attitude for a challenge and Ian, never backs down from a challenge.

Not to mention the photographer is easy on the eyes.  While there are rumors of Mickey’s sexuality floating around, speculations and theories about him “liking the D,” talk is cheap to Ian.  He would have to find out for himself.

As he crosses the street now, he hopes he didn’t fuck up by being so forward.  Even though Mickey did take his pictures, he didn’t look happy about it.  He hopes they’re good enough, meets Mickey Milkovich standards.  When he steps into his train and finds a seat he knows he wants this job.  He’s finally found something that could eventually, if he made it, pay him as much as the Army would have and he’s determined to not let _the_  bigheaded Mickey Milkovich ruin this for him.

*

“The hell was that all about?”

Mickey ceases going through the shots of Ian on his camera and cracks his neck before eyeing Sully out of his periphery.  He has his back to him, but already felt him staring holes in him before his tone hinted at his disapproval.  “What was what about?” Mickey asks, already knowing where this conversation is headed.

Sully makes his way around so he’s now standing in front of Mickey, who’s preoccupied with his camera again.  “Your little act just now, being a total ice queen to Ian.  Since when do you question the models I bring in?  You pretty much kicked me in the balls dude.”

Mickey would tell him it was a kneejerk reaction, but he’s not going to.  Too much pride for that.  “I’m not here to be sensitive to your balls man,” Mickey scoffs, “I’m here to do my fucking job.  That back there, was me doing my job.”

“No, it was you busting my balls,” Sully counters, “and Ian’s in the process.”  Mickey’s still fidgeting with his expensive camera and being a dick, not even looking up and acknowledging him.  Feeling annoyed by this, Sully hovers his hand over the camera, blocking Mickey’s view.  “Would you just look up for a second?”  Mickey does so, clearly not happy about it.  “What gives?”

Mickey rubs the pads of his fingers over his eyes, already getting a headache from this shit.  “I can’t have amateurs working here,” he finally responds.

“Wow, doesn’t that sound familiar,” Sully contests.  “If I’m not mistaken there’s an echo in the room right now.”

Mickey breathes heavily, feels the weight of déjà vu and bites the inside of his cheek momentarily. “That shit doesn’t matter.  Ian’s still an amateur.”

“I’ve known you, what, six years now?  I know when you see something you like,” Sully counters with a smirk, which almost sounds like he’s insinuating something.  Mickey lets it slide off of his shoulders, ignores it.  “You’re spending way too much time going through his photos right now. You wouldn’t waste your eye.  And is Ian not a natural?”

He’s a fucking distraction, that’s what he is, Mickey thinks.  He can’t have any distractions.  Absolutely none.  Zero. “He takes a nice picture,” Mickey says as he finally power downs his camera, “but can he model?”  Ian is a natural.  Mickey knows it, but he’s not going to tell Sully that.

His friend pauses for a few moments, pushes his brows inward.  “You’re bluffing,” Sully challenges.

“What?”

“Dude, you are!” Sully laughs.  “C’mon, just stop being a dick and hire Ian already.  Wanna show Mark?  Yeah, Mark would approve.”

“How do you know Mark would approve, huh?”  Mickey knows he probably would.

“Approve of what?” a voice calls from the entrance way of the studio.  

Mickey and Sully turn their heads in the direction of the refined voice to see the studio owner Mark standing with his hands in his pants pockets.  He begins to walk towards the pair, Mickey swallowing hard at the sight. The man seems to float across floors when he walks.  It’s ethereal sometimes.  He’s dressed in some obviously expensive charcoal grey slacks with a pristine white button-up dress shirt that’s rolled up to his biceps.  His arm tattoos peek out from underneath the fabric.  The shoes he’s wearing scream Italian leather.

“Uh, some new guy Sully found through Ned Lishman,” Mickey says as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

“The perv?” Mark laughs. It’s contagious, because Sully and Mickey laugh too.  The guy has that effect on people.

“Yeah, but his pervy-ness has gotten some good models,” Sully responds.  “And this Ian guy is potentially a real money maker, real easy on the eyes, killer bone structure.  Took some photos on the spot.”

“Sounds like you like him,” Mark says to Sully while studying the side of Mickey’s face. “Let’s have a look,” he directs towards Mickey this time.

Mark moves in close to Mickey until his hip is lightly brushing up against his.  The mild scent of his cologne cascades over Mickey and lingers underneath his nose.  Mark stares down at the camera as he powers it on, and begins to go through the photos he just took of Ian.  He takes one hand and gently wraps it around Mickey’s wrist as he goes through the photos, earning a serious glare from Sully.

“Red head, huh?” Mark says as he tears his eyes away from the pictures and looks Mickey right in the eyes.  “I like him. He has a look you don’t see in modeling often.”

“Ha!  You see?” Sully screams at Mickey victoriously.  “What did I tell you?  I knew Mark would approve, thank you very much.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey responds as he flips his signature bird.  He wants to say Mark doesn’t give a shit, rarely does, but he’s standing right there.

“But it’s ultimately your decision,” Mark says to Mickey.  “You’re my lead and premier photographer.”

“There you go,” Mickey says to Sully mockingly, earning a serious eye roll from him.

Mark chuckles lightly and leans in towards Mickey until he’s a few inches from his ear.  “I need to discuss some upcoming editorial shoots with you,” he says smoothly.  “Follow me to my office.”  He takes a few steps backwards and rubs his hand down his jaw over his neatly groomed facial hair before running it through his brown hair.  He turns around to head towards his office, Mickey following.

“Where you going man?” Sully asks, his arms raised.

“Gotta discuss some things with my boss,” Mickey responds sarcastically.  “That cool with you?”

“Yeah, discuss…”Sully trails off, “whatever you say.  I gotta call Mandy anyway.”

“You do that!” Mickey calls behind him as he follows his boss to his office.

 

_Mickey’s only been working at Metropolitan Studios for six months and already, he’s in high demand, and by more than the clientele.  He was all the rage.  The ‘Southside Sensation’ as everyone was calling him. A natural.  His calendar was filling up quicker than he could blink, but that was the least of his worries._

_Mickey knew it was game over when his boss Mark rolled up his luxurious dress shirt sleeves, and those tattoos peeked out from underneath, not too much to be in your face, but just enough to drive you crazy.  He’d licked his lips, lips that were full and rivaled his own, while Mickey showed him a few proofs of the day’s photo shoot when they were alone in the studio one night.  Pictures were the last thing on his mind as his olive green eyes scanned Mickey too slow to be casual.  He never even pegged this guy, debonair with just enough badass, as gay._

_It didn’t take much to find out – Mickey had the sore muscles and bruises on his hips to prove it._

_Now Sully’s on to him.  The guy was never the sharpest tool in the shed – a damn good photographer with an even better eye for beauty – but a bit dull at times.  Nevertheless, he’s sniffing him out like a bloodhound.  He eyes Mickey with suspicion as they sit in the studio café downstairs, eating Paninis._

_“Mark seems to like you a lot,” Sully says just as he takes a bite of his sandwich.  “Smiles a lot when he sees you.”_

_“I guess,” Mickey answers nonchalantly, looking down at his food. He has yet to take a bite. Instead he picks at his pickle with a dull, plastic knife while he fights back a grin.  He clears his throat, mutes his almost smile and looks up innocently at Sully._

_“No fucking way,” Sully says, his eyes the size of plates. “No fucking way!” he repeats louder this time._

_“What?” Mickey asks, trying his best to play it cool._

_Sully lets out a loud laugh, nearly chokes on the food not chewed in his mouth.  He catches his breath and takes a sip of his green tea, looks at Mickey with a knowing grin. “I never pegged you for the Tom Hardy type,” he continues to laugh.  “Jake Gyllenhaal, Channing Tatum or Chris Evans maybe, fucking pretty boys.  You’re not fooling anyone with those knuckle tattoos.”_

_Mickey twists up his face as if confused.  Sully’s known about Mickey being gay for years, but still, he can’t have him knowing about the previous night’s activities.  “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”_

_“The hell you do,” Sully snorts, “I know a slap-happy grin when I see one.  Afterglow is hard to hide man.  I was wondering why you stayed at the studio so late the other night.”_

_Mickey bites his bottom lip and grows silent.  He contemplates denying this, but knows Sully can smell bullshit from a mile away.  He looks up at his friend and admittedly shrugs, earning a howl from him. “Would you shut the fuck up?!” Mickey barks.  “I don’t need the whole world knowing about this shit!”_

_“Hahaaa!” Sully laughs obnoxiously, “I fucking knew it! Wooo!  The boss?!  And he’s like ten years older than you, and loaded.  Badass!”_

_Mickey thinks about committing homicide with a plastic knife that couldn’t slice a banana.  Sully’s a second away from meeting his end.  He groans and puts his head down, thanking his lucky stars they ate late today. Sully’s mouth is a hazard.  He looks around, and there are no models or interns in sight.  Just a few café workers in the background.  “You can’t tell anyone about this,” Mickey says lowly.  “Besides, it was a one-time thing.”_

_“No worries, your secret’s safe with me man.”_

_Mickey brushes his thumb across his bottom lip and lets out a deep breath.  He didn’t realize he was holding it.  He then twists his face up and gives Sully a weird look.  “And Tom Hardy?” he asks._

_“Yeah man, Mark…he’s so Tom Hardy,” Sully responds.  “The guy is hot, so good job.  If I was gay, I’d do him.”_

_Mickey puts his head down and groans again.  What did he get himself into?_

Before Mark’s office door is closed, he’s already pulling Mickey in by his belt loops.  He ducks his head and immediately begins to kiss Mickey on the underside of his jaw.  “It’s too hard being professional around you,” he says between kisses and nibbles.

“Yeah well, you weren’t exactly professional out there just now,” Mickey breathes out just as Mark undoes his jeans expertly and slides his hand in his pants.  He moans when he feels one hand begin to palm him through his boxers, and the other slide underneath his black V-neck t-shirt. “You’re startin’ to push it.”

“Am I?” Mark says as he lifts up from Mickey’s neck.  He stares at Mickey for a second, before leaning in to kiss him slowly.  He stops when he feels Mickey pull back slightly and frowns.  “You know we’re not exactly a secret anymore,” Mark says with a seriousness to his tone.

And they weren’t, not really.  He and Mark were that unspoken, yet known thing to the people that worked at Metropolitan, and to some close colleagues in the photography world.  Mickey wasn’t closeted, but he wasn’t exactly out either. Doing what he was doing with Mark was straddling the line and uncomfortable at times, but it had yet to blow up in his face.  So he continued to go with it.  The one-time thing, turned into a year and a half thing.

They’re semi-serious, but not serious-serious – so Mickey thinks.  They never really had “the talk” and put no labels on what they’ve been doing. All he knows is that the sex is good, Mark likes to give him expensive shit and maybe likes to take him on dates, occasionally.  So what. Regardless, he can’t have this getting blown out of proportion.

“I know we’re not exactly a secret,” Mickey finally responds, “but we’re not some big, known thing either.”

“And you don’t wanna be?”

“I….” Mickey trails off, “I don’t know.  Can we just keep this as is without making it complicated?”

“It became complicated when we fucked more than once,” Mark says sternly.  He drags his eyes over Mickey’s lips, contemplates kissing him to prove a point, but refrains.  “Look, I made reservations for dinner tonight,” he changes the subject.

“Where?”

“Arun’s Thai.”

“That place is fucking expensive,” Mickey responds as he raises his brows.  “It’s a bit much.”

“Says the guy wearing the Rolex I bought him last month,” Mark says derisively.  He rubs his hand through his neatly trimmed hair.  “You know money’s no object.”

And this is what always makes Mickey think twice about things.  It’s not that Mark would be dropping a pretty penny at such an upscale place.  He knows money is nothing to Mark, doesn’t mind the amount that is spent on him more often than not.  It’s the sentiment behind it that makes Mickey want to head for the hills and run with his tail tucked between his legs – and he almost always does.  

But then Mark does the thing.  Its the thing with his mouth where he bites his lip, scans him with his eyes and grabs him by the wrist, presses his pulse point.  It always leads back to the bedroom and those second thoughts get lost in the motions of his hips.

Then the feelings grow a little bit more.

“It’s not that,” Mickey finally responds.  He darts his eyes to the floor quickly before looking back at Mark who can already see what’s coming next.  “It’s just that I wanted to get some extra work done tonight, maybe develop some of the photos from the film cameras I used in yesterday’s shoot in the dark room. I’m a bit behind.”

“Not if I say you’re not.”

Mickey shakes his head. “C’mon, that’s not fair.  Don’t even pull that card.”

“But I am your boss,” Mark challenges.  Mickey says nothing in response, merely focuses his eyes on the door of the office. “If you don’t wanna go, fucking say it,” Mark snaps suddenly.  He walks over to his desk, sits down in his leather chair and faces it towards the window. He looks out over Chicago while Mickey’s eyes are on his back.  

“Don’t be mad,” Mickey says guiltily.

“I’m not,” Mark retorts still looking out onto the city below, “just…” he trails off.  He takes a deep breath and turns around so he’s finally facing Mickey.  “Look, don’t worry about it.  Another time. Gonna catch up on some things myself and head home early.”  He smiles, and it nearly makes Mickey jump out of his skin.  There’s something else behind it.

“Yeah, another time,” Mickey responds.  “I’ll call you later when I leave the studio?”  Mark nods his head and Mickey takes that as his cue to go.  But there’s always a catch when he goes, so he has yet another kneejerk reaction and gives Mark exactly what he wants.  “I’ll come over, stay the night.”

 _Him_.

The Southside would be ashamed.  Mickey only ventures back occasionally to drop off cash to his piece of shit father at the rooming house he’s in now.  He’s strung out most of the time and Mandy goes when he can’t make it. But there’s no way he can show his face now – he was turning into a spoiled, kept boy.  He wears a Rolex and Chuck Taylor’s.  Mickey wipes his hands over his face, internally whimpers and stares down at his knuckle tattoos.  What a façade they’ve become.

“You ok man?” Sully asks as he makes his way back into the photo studio.  

“Uh, um…” Mickey trails off and clears his throat, “yeah, just tired I guess.”

“You can always end things with him,” Sully says nonchalantly as if it’s nothing as he arranges a bunch of proofs on the long table they keep in the back.  “Ya know, if you’re feeling smothered, or like you’re turning into a Real Housewife.  He won’t fire you, you’re too valuable.”  

“Fuck…you,” Mickey says slowly, pointedly.  And although Sully has a point, he’s been in this for too long to just call it quits now. His slowly growing feelings scare the shit out of him, no thanks to his stunted emotional growth courtesy of Terry. His first instinct is to run – always – but he let this go on, and now that it looked like things were getting deeper, it was more difficult to do.  

Mickey frowns, remembers something, checks the time on his Rolex and cringes.  “Ay look, do you and Mandy have plans later?”

“Yeah, why?” Sully responds, still hovering over the proofs.  

“I need you two to take a detour for me.”

“To where?”

“Terry.”

Sully stands up straight and shoots daggers into Mickey with his stare.  The large light hovering over the table seems to make his eyes look as if they’re burning.  “No fucking way!” he practically screams.  “Mandy went last time, it’s your turn dude.”

“Would you lower your fucking voice?!” Mickey says harshly.  “Look, I know I’m supposed to go, but I told Mark I was working late and would be over his place tonight, all just to get out of a fancy dinner date. What the fuck.”

“Not our problem you and Mark can’t sort your shit out,” Sully says as he goes back to looking at the proofs.

“How much?” Mickey continues.

“How much what?”

“Don’t play dumb asswipe. How much is it gonna take to get you and Mandy to go make a drop to Terry for me?”

Sully props his hands up on the table and begins to flex his jaw.  “Bribing?  Really? Honestly, I don’t know why you two even bother in the first place,” Sully offers coolly.  “You always say so yourself, he’s a piece of shit.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Mickey swells, “Watch your  _fucking_  mouth.  Yes I say that, but he’s my fucking dad so I have the right.  Look, you wouldn’t understand.  No one loathes him more than I do, but – “ Mickey cuts himself off, swallows his words momentarily.  “Just…would you please do this one thing for me?  I got you for a moth after this, whatever you need.”

Sully grows quiet, looks at Mickey out of his periphery.  He is the one that got Mickey the job here in the first place, so one could say that this M&M fiasco that is his boss and best friend is his doing. “We’ll go, but tomorrow, “he offers, “and on one condition,” Sully bargains.  Mickey raises his brows.

“I told him I’d be there later today.”

“Well then you go later,” Sully counters.  “Oh wait…you can’t.”

“Fuck!  Fine!” Mickey caves.  “What’s the condition?”

Sully turns around completely and folds his arms.  “It’s a go for Ian Gallagher.”

For some reason Mickey feels his stomach sink.  “Why do you want him here so bad anyway?”

“Just got a feeling about him,” Sully answers.  “I have a third eye for these things.  But if that’s a no, you can go back there to Mark and tell him why you really don’t wanna go out.  It’s because you’re scared and also because you’re enabling your junky father by giving him cash.  But, we both know you won’t do that, will you?”

Every silent truth rings loudly between the lines of Sully’s statement.  Mickey can’t cover his ears.

He almost punches Sully, but holds himself back.  He’s right anyway.  But what Sully doesn’t understand, is Mickey and Mandy do what they do to  _keep_  Terry out of their lives.  Otherwise he’ll just wreak havoc, always looking for them, finding them, and making life shit again.  They tell themselves this is easier, better, and it’s only a matter of time before he overdoses or gets killed in the street from one of the many fights he always starts.  So Mickey caves, accepts his offer.

“Fine,” Mickey says dully. “Ian’s in.”

*

Ian is lying on the couch in his apartment as his brother Lip sits next to his head on an armchair.  He watches Ian as he nervously fumbles with his phone, eyes fixed on the ceiling.  Ian hasn’t heard from Sully yet and he gets more nervous by the minute.  This is a big job-opportunity with the prospect of good money, which his family needs.  He sighs and checks again that his phone isn’t in the ‘don’t disturb’ mode he usually has it in, before letting if flop back down on his stomach with a dull thud.  He thrums his fingers next to it, simultaneously tapping his foot against the other end of the couch.  Suddenly Lip huffs out a laugh, causing Ian to snap out of his daze and look up at him.

“What?” Ian asks, curious. Lip snatches the phone away from him and waits until he sits up with a scowl on his face.  “Give it back,” he breathes out.  His tone is annoyed, making Lip smirk and shake his head.

“Can you forget about this shit for a moment so we can watch the game in peace?” Lip pleads.

Ian frowns and turns to the TV.  Oh right, they’re supposed to be watching the football game, just like they do every Sunday. Ian sighs and takes the phone back from Lip.  “Sorry man.”

Lip shrugs again but doesn’t turn to the TV right away.  Instead, he watches Ian lean back against the couch, still anxiously fiddling with his phone, and scratches his temple with his thumb inquisitively.  “Never thought this shit would be so important to you.”

Ian turns around to look back at Lip.  “It’s pretty good money,” he offers.  Lip in turn raises his eyebrows.  A blush creeping up his cheeks, Ian looks down and relents, “it’s also kinda fun, okay?!”

Lip opens his mouth clearly to tease Ian, but stops just short when Ian’s phone rings.  He’s startled by the ring and scrambles to answer it.  In the blink of an eye, he’s on his feet, arm slung around his chest as he finally puts the phone against his ear.  “Yeah?  Ian Gallagher?”

Watching closely, Lip sees Ian’s brows knit together before they rise high up his forehead.  Ian only mutters, throwing in a ‘yes’ and ‘definitely’ every now and then.  The spectacle fascinates Lip.  If there is one direction he never would have imagined seeing his brother go in, it’s modeling.  Sure, it has the potential to earn him and their family quite some money, but seeing Ian this excited about something again is something Lip had almost given up on ever seeing again.  After Ian’s dream of the Army shattered, he didn’t think he’d ever find something that would mean as much to him.  Lip tried to help, but in the end came to realize that finding enthusiasm was something Ian had to do himself.

Looking at him now, Lip supposes Ian is on the right track to getting there.  He’s glad.  So when Ian turns around with a wide smile and tells him that he got the job, Lip congratulates him honestly, holds any previous interrogative thoughts, and pulls him into a hug.

*

Ian has to go in the next day.  The mix of nervousness and excitement in his stomach almost makes him nauseous.  When he gets to the studio, Mickey, Sully, and a man Ian doesn’t recognize are already waiting for him.

“Am I late?” he asks just as the three men look up.

“Not at all,” Sully grins and walks over to put a hand on his shoulder.  He motions with his head for Ian to follow him, leads him further into the studio until they stop in front of the mystery man Ian doesn’t know.  “That’s Mark,” Sully offers, “he’s the boss here, owns the place.  And you already know Mickey.”

Mark has his arms folded over his chest, a tattoo sleeve peeking out from under his dress shirt.  He gives Ian a skeptical once over.  When their eyes meet, the man smirks, but it doesn’t look genuine.  Ian furrows his brows for a moment, but shrugs it off eventually and holds out his hand.  “Ian,” he offers with a smile. 

The owner hesitates for a moment, then unfolds his arms and shakes Ian’s hand.  “Pleasure,” he greets.  It sounds just as insincere as his smile looks, but Ian disregards it, lets it slide off of his shoulders.  He then turns to Mickey who is watching them warily.  When he realizes that Ian’s eyes are on him, he nods in greeting.

Ian grins almost instantly. “Hey Mickey,” he says, a slight excitement lining his voice.  He probably sounds like a fourteen year old with a crush, giddy and ridiculous – he needs to tone that shit down.  But he sees Mickey’s lips quirk into an almost-smile before he can catch himself.

“You bring the white shirt?” Mickey asks as he forces his lips into a serious line.  He’s here to work.  Ian nods and moves to the space in front of the camera.  He’s on-the-spot-ready, just like Sully told him Mickey would want him to be.  

_“From the moment you walk in the studio doors, it’s into auto pilot mode and no time is wasted,” Sully informed Ian over the phone. “Mickey doesn’t mess around, so come ready with whatever he tells you.”_

_“Yeah, no problem,” Ian responded.  “I’ll be ready.”_

_And just like that, he felt as if things had just begun for him._

 

There is a big black screen on the wall where he’s directed towards.  Ian shrugs out of his hoodie and throws it unceremoniously to the side.  He can feel Mark’s eyes on him, but he keeps his focus on Mickey.  “What do I need to do?” Ian asks.

Mickey huffs at Ian’s apparent amateur moment, but picks up his camera and walks over to his spot.  “We want to take some simple head and full body shots first,” he informs.  “We’ll add these shots to the studio portfolio, just like we do for every model that works here.”  Mickey then places his hand inadvertently on Ian’s arm, and gently nudges for him to move in more.  “Right here, on the red X,” he instructs.

Ian does as he is told and places himself on the red X made out of tape on the floor.  “Uh, this ok?” he asks.  He scratches the back of his neck, not knowing what to do for a moment – and it’s a moment too long.  Mickey eyes him suspiciously, raises a brow to the ceiling.

“Ay look, just relax.  Stand still and look into the camera and try out some natural expressions,” Mickey says, his voice deeper and not as biting as the first time he took Ian’s pictures. “Use that game you brought the first time.”  Ian smiles at Mickey’s attempt to ease him, takes a deep breath and relaxes.  Mickey takes this as his cue to get to work, his attempt to pacify the new model clearly a success.  It’s quite odd actually, because anyone who knows Mickey, knows calming anyone is not his forte.

He steps back to his post, lifts his camera, and snaps.  Just like that, Ian transforms from nervous newbie, to natural once again.

 

Fifteen minutes later they take a break and Mickey turns away to take a first look at the photos.  He can’t deny it; Ian really is a natural.

“They any good?”  Mickey jumps in surprise.  Ian’s leaning over his shoulder, his breath brushing over Mickey’s neck.  Clearly, the guy does not understand the concept of the personal bubble.  He tries to look away, but Ian turns his head and his wide eyes find his, locking him in place.  Mickey can feel the blush rising from his neck to his cheeks, inwardly groans because he can’t fucking have this. Ian grins at him.  “Mickey?” he says inquisitively.

The photographer blinks, pauses or a second, then finally snaps out of it.  He clears his throat and looks back into the camera.  “They’re good,” he offers blandly.

Ian rubs his hands together in excitement before wrapping them around Mickey’s biceps and squeezing lightly.  Again – the concept of personal bubble clearly being violated.  “You like them Mickey?” he asks as if surprised.  Mickey’s breath catches.  Ian’s voice has definitely dropped a few octaves as he stands so close to Mickey he can smell him.  Christ, the guy truly doesn’t have any concept of personal space.

Mickey gulps and nods out a hoarse, “Yeah.”  His voice sounds breathier than he wants to admit, but for some reason Ian’s closeness throws him for a loop.  Throws him  _off_.  He physically shakes himself and steps away, turns around to look at Ian, but catches Mark’s eyes behind the model instead.  His lips are pressed together in a thin line, arms crossed, and his eyes narrowed on the back of Ian’s head.

“They’re good,” Mickey says again, seriously delayed.  “Take ten and we’ll start with some outfits we have here.”

Ian nods with a smile, then leaves with Sully to the lunch room for coffee.  Slightly disheveled and maybe a little confused, Mickey focuses back on the photos, Mark’s eyes weighing heavily on him.  “What?” he eventually asks and looks up, raising his eyebrows sharply.  The owner walks over to him, eyes still narrowed, arms crossed.  He just looks at Mickey for a moment, knowing the unnerving effect it has on him.

“He’s hot,” Mark finally says.  

Feeling baited, Mickey clenches his jaw and rolls his eyes.  “He’s a model,” he responds pointedly, “he’s supposed to be.”

Mark smiles, but it’s not a pleasant one, and steps closer.  “He’s a flirty one,” he says in an accusing tone.  Mickey holds the eye contact, sees the dangerous glint in Mark’s eyes and curses the fact that this man can tower over him like this – both in stature and presence.  

Mickey stands up a little straighter, pushing his chest out a bit. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he respond dismissively.

 _Right_.

Not buying a word, Mark uncrosses his arms, decides to take a different approach.  He grips Mickey’s shirt with one hand and yanks him flush against him.  Mickey lets out a groan when their bodies meet and he feels the blood rushing down his body.  His eyes flit to the door to the lunchroom, but Ian and Sully are not in sight.  When his eyes meet Mark’s again, he can see the warning in them.   _You’re mine._  He emphasizes it with a deep, biting kiss, leaving a little blood on Mickey’s lower lip, his eyes piercing.   _Interrogating_.  Mickey just stares back.   _Message received._   Mark smirks and pushes him away just in time.

When Ian returns, the room is noticeably cooler and Mickey keeps his distance, aware of Mark’s eyes on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me, Nuria, uploading today and because Imani said such nice things in the notes of the prologue, I wanted to take the chance and say it is incredible to write with Imani :) It's such an honor and I admire her writing and her as a person so much, so it is really an incredible thing and I am very very excited about this, so I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as we enjoy writing it :)


	3. The Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wraps her arms around herself, steps on her left foot with her right, stilling herself. There’s cement in her legs, the heaviness making it hard to move. Her eyes close just as Sully’s hand finds its way to her lower back and caresses it gently.
> 
> “You ok to do this?” he asks. “You know you don’t have to.”

A day late always meant a dollar short.  They were supposed to do this yesterday, which means lost time is going to cost them. Mandy stiffens as they walk up the sidewalk leading to the rooming house.  One million walks up this path would never make her get used to the way this place is failing, the metal fence and the way the rust makes it scream a mere accent to the crumbling cement steps just begging for someone to fall. Perhaps someone already has.

She wraps her arms around herself, steps on her left foot with her right, stilling herself. There’s cement in her legs, the heaviness making it hard to move.  Her eyes close just as Sully’s hand finds its way to her lower back and caresses it gently.

“You ok to do this?” he asks.  “You know you don’t have to.”

Mandy laughs, but it’s a sound far from happy.  As if she had a choice.  It was either do this, or expect her father’s wrath to come tumbling down on them all, Sully included.  She and Mickey made a pact long ago, that this was the best way, the only way, to keep their father at further than a thousand arms’ length.  It was survival.  “I don’t really have a choice, ya know,” Mandy responds, her voice cracking.

“We don’t really have a choice,” Sully corrects, “ _we_.” They’re a team, and he needs to make sure she knows this.  His emphasis on the word ‘we’ feels in vain to Mandy.

She looks over her shoulder, her eyes not quite meeting Sully’s.  “You always have a choice,” she assures him.  

She unwraps her arms from around herself and makes her way up the walkway towards the rusted fence. Opening it lets out a hideous sound of iron too old and too heavy.  As she bangs on the door, because of course the door bell is shit and works less than half the time, she feels Sully’s hand rest on her lower back again.  It’s as if he’s silently letting her know, despite him having a choice, he’s still here for her.  Mandy turns around and offers him a small smile, but really, she simply just wants to break the contact.  She learned long ago that caressing hands were never a remedy for the problems Milkoviches had to deal with.

She thought Sully understood that by now.

After about two minutes, the door swings open.  It’s just as loud as the fence.  They’re greeted by a woman in her fifties, with her hair dyed jet black and her makeup done like Baby Jane Hudson.  There’s a cigarette hanging loosely from her wrinkled, red painted mouth.  She eyes Mandy up and down slowly, before taking a long drag on her cigarette.  “You here for Terry?” she asks knowingly.  Her voice is deep and scratchy, a telltale sign of years of chain smoking.

“Hey Doreen,” Mandy responds as she steps inside the house, Sully on her heels.  “Yeah, I’m here for him.  Where is he?”

“Same place he always is,” Doreen responds, a trail of smoke coming out of her mouth.  

“Right,” Mandy responds as she peeps into the living room.  “Kitchen then?”

“You know it sweetheart.” Doreen then steps in front of Mandy before she makes her way through the living room.  She looks at her endearingly.  “Let me have a look at you honey,” she says as she places her hand underneath Mandy’s chin.  She lifts her head up slightly, and smiles.  “You and your brother kill me every time with these beautiful, crystal blue eyes.  They’re so sad sometimes, but always beautiful,” she continues, her long, bright fuscia, acrylic nails brushing against Mandy’s jaw.  “You look good though, just as pretty as ever.  I take it that’s happiness?”  She then looks over at Sully and grins.

“Doreen,” Sully nods as he stands next to Mandy, “nice to see you again.  You’re just as ravishing as ever.”

Doreen lets out a loud cackle, followed by a string of rattling coughs.  She places her hand on her chest and catches her breath.  “You know exactly what a lady loves to hear handsome,” she finally manages to respond.  “You bring one of those fancy cameras with you?”

“I didn’t, but next time,” he winks at her.  “We’ll take some photos out by the rose bush you love so much in the back again.”  

“I’ll hold you to it. Mickey obliged me last time,” she smiles.  “Well, don’t let this old crow keep you two gorgeous youngsters any longer.  I’m sure you wanna get outta here.”

“Thanks Doreen,” Mandy says as she makes her way through the living room area, towards the back kitchen. Sully leans in and gives Doreen a hug before following.  

Despite her lifetime battles with heroin addiction, and an active past as a ‘Madam’ as she likes to call it, Doreen’s a wonderful woman full of more stories and zest than anyone they know.  The first time Mandy visited Terry here, she broke down crying on the front steps, only to be comforted by her.  She was nurturing and was more than willing to use her motherly skills she barely got to put to use for her own children due to her lifetime of drug abuse.  

_Terry was always a shit father – always abusive, always abusing. Mandy and her siblings were constantly the brunt, Mickey catching the most hell, the heroin needle receiving more care from Terry than he gave his own kids.  But still, to see him like this, strung out and permanently stained angry, was harder to see than she had anticipated.  Her knees gave out when she made it back outside to the porch, instantly causing her to crumble.  She felt a hand squeeze her shoulder as she silently sobbed._

_“It gets better,” Doreen said to a crying Mandy.  “Believe me sweetheart, I know.  My own kids know too.”_

_But Mandy knew, it wouldn’t._

Since then, Doreen has been like the house mother to her when she comes to make drops to Terry. When Sully started coming with her, it didn’t take long for her to adopt him as well.

Mandy and Sully finally make their way to the main kitchen.  Not surprisingly, Terry is at the table, nursing a bottle of cheap whiskey, smoking a cigarette and playing cards with two other addicts.  He’s not high, yet, but she can see from his red-rimmed eyes that he’s already drunk.  She prepares herself to hear his same spiel about how  _‘it’s her and Mickey’s fault he’s in this shit hole’_ when he knows it’s by his own hand that their house burned down a few years back. Iggy still walks around with the third-degree, burn scars on his neck and down his right arm – a reminder of how nodding out from a heroin high with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is the perfect recipe for an inferno.

If only Terry hadn’t gotten out at all.

“Dad,” Mandy unwillingly greets as she stands across the table from him.

“You got my shit?” he says, not even looking up at her.

Without a word, Mandy pulls a white envelope out of her shoulder bag and unceremoniously tosses it on the table.  It lands in front of Terry, disturbs his cards.  “There,” she finally speaks as she crosses her arms.

Terry looks down slowly at the envelope, tightens his jaw.  “It’s fuckin’ late,” he says angrily.  “Your brother was supposed to bring it yesterday.”

“Well he couldn’t make it so he asked me.”

A malicious laugh escapes Terry’s chest, then dissipates into a low humming.  He finally looks up at his daughter, brings the whiskey bottle to his thin lips and takes a few gulps, his eyes never leaving her.  He slams down the bottle.  “What, is your brother too busy playing with his cameras like a little bitch?  That it?”

“Look, I don’t have to explain anything – “

“That it?!” Terry screams across Mandy, cutting her off.  He slams his fist down into the table, causing it to shake.  The bottle of whiskey topples over from the force, the liquid quickly traveling to the cards on the table.

“Aw c’mon Terry!” one of the men at the table yells at him.  “You’re makin’ a damn mess, ruinin’ our game!”

“Shut the fuck up Larry!” Terry snarls at him.  “Fuck this game and fuck you, you stupid sonofabitch!  I just wasted all my liquor, how ‘bout that, huh?  And all because of this bitch!” he points at Mandy.

“Fuck you dad,” Mandy bites, “I’m leaving.”

She turns around to leave, but is quickly blocked by Terry who jumps out of his chair and practically flies around the table.  He places himself in front of her, his eyebrows knitted tightly together in a frown and his mouth curled downward.  Sully immediately interjects, stands between Mandy and her angry father.  Mandy’s not sure if it’s a brave thing her boyfriend is doing, or something completely idiotic.  Either way, it’s still dangerous.  

Terry sizes up Sully, before he lets out a laugh.  “And what are you gonna do boy?”

Not backing down, Sully squares his shoulders, stands toe to toe with the beast.  “Enough to keep you from hurting her,” he says sternly, “anymore.”

At this moment, you can hear a pen drop in the next room over they’re at such a standstill. Before things can escalate, Mandy places her hand on Sully’s shoulder and starts to pull him back out of the way. “It’s ok,” she says to him.   He doesn’t budge at first, but when she grabs him by the wrist, that seems to do the trick.  “Sully, it’s ok.  I got this.”

“You’re lucky kid,” Terry says to Sully as he stands behind Mandy.  He then looks darkly at his daughter.  “I thought I raised you to be able to pick apart the pussies from the real men.”

“That’s the problem dad,” Mandy retorts, her voice now angry, “you never raised me, or gave me a good example of what a real man is.  Mickey did that.”

Terry’s lips press together tightly as he narrows his eyes on Mandy.  His shadow seems to swell on wall behind him, growing thicker, more menacing.  “Mickey, huh? That explains the wimp you chose,” he bites, “I bet he’s fucking your brother.”

“Just stop!” Mandy screams. It catches Terry off guard, because the snarl on his face dissipates quickly.  There’s a hint of shock, which changes right back into his resting demon face.

He scratches aimlessly at his arms and turns to look behind him.  “Larry!” he calls.  The small-framed man jumps to his feet and limps over to Terry.  “Call Coot,” he says as he turns back to meet his daughter’s gaze, “I need my fuckin’ fix before I kill  _something_.”

“Uh, I don’t know Terry,” Larry says shaking his head, “you know you still owe him money from last time.”

“Who gives a shit?! Call him!” Terry screams.  “I’ll fuckin’ handle it!”

“Mandy, let’s go,” Sully says to her.  He grabs her by the hand and begins to pull her away.

Terry laughs at the gesture. “Tell your brother we need to talk,” he says to Mandy as she begins to walk away.  She looks over her shoulder, but says nothing.  “These…arrangements aren’t really working for me anymore,” Terry continues, “and I have my own terms and conditions we need to discuss. Soon.”

Mandy turns back around and exits the house with Sully.  When they step out onto the front porch, they find Doreen sitting on the top step, smoking a cigarette.  She turns around and smiles at the couple, but her smile fades when she picks up on the stress in their face.  She stands to her feet and offers them both a consoling look.

“Sonofabitch,” she says through a mouthful of smoke, “Terry.”  She places her hand on Mandy’s shoulder.

“We’re leaving now Doreen,” Mandy says as she smiles weakly.  “See you next time, huh?”  Doreen doesn’t respond, just simply squeezes her shoulder, before catching Sully by the hand.

They make their way down the dilapidated steps, before swinging open the screaming fence.  As they walk back to Sully’s car, he places a protective arm around her waist, turns and kisses her hair on the crown of her head.

“There isn’t gonna be a next time,” he says to her.  Mandy looks up at him, his face stoic and serious as he looks straight ahead, focusing intently on nothing in particular.  Despite her not having a choice in all of these, she somehow, believes him.  

*

“Something wrong?”

Mickey blinks his eyes a few times before closing them for a few moments.  He opens them, hovers his finger over the shutter button of his camera, but doesn’t press it.   _Something’s off_.  He shakes his head and stands to his feet out of the kneeling position. The model shoots Mickey a confused look, tries her best to hold her pose, but breathing is necessary at this point, so she loosens her body and places her hand on her hip.

Hands find their way to Mickey’s shoulders and begin to squeeze as the same voice carries over them. “You ok?” Mark asks as he leans in. He takes his thumbs and begins to work the tense muscles between Mickey’s shoulder blades in circular motions. It’s rare he observes him while he shoots, but today, for whatever reason, Mark saw fit to invite himself to his first photoshoot of the day.

Mickey rubs his eyelids with the pads of fingers, before throwing up his hand and signaling the model with five fingers.  “Take five please,” he says before he leans back into Mark, his back now flush against his chest.

Mark moves his hands to wrap them around Mickey’s waist, hovers his lips directly above his pulse point in his neck.  “Maybe you need to release some tension,” he suggests.  His right hand slowly finds its way underneath Mickey’s t-shirt and travels upward.  He rakes his fingertips gently over his nipple, causing him to shiver and almost forget where he was.

“Shit, not here,” Mickey says as he pushes his hand from underneath his shirt.  He turns around, hopes and prays his face isn’t flush.

“Why not?” Mark challenges, “I own the place.”  He pulls Mickey in by his belt loop, ghosts his lips across his jawline before planting a kiss in the corner of his mouth.  “Your face is so flush right now.”

“Shit,” Mickey breathes out, defeated.  He pulls away again, rubs his hand down his now very hot face.  “For one, models are here in the back,” he says as he finally breaks away, “and two, I’m just not on my game today.”

“Something bothering you?”

Mickey sighs, tries his best to ignore the pegging look on Mark’s face – it’s a look that can make one confess every deepest, darkest sin, prior and planned.  “It’s just…” he trails off.  “I guess I just didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

“Totally my fault,” Mark picks, once again infiltrating Mickey’s personal bubble.  He gently grabs his chin, and kisses him slow and steady. The entrance to the studio door slams, startling them both, breaking the kiss.

Sully and Mandy come storming in, both wearing withered looks on their face.  Without as much as a ‘hey’ Sully makes a beeline for Mickey. He doesn’t need his best friend to say anything to pick up on there being something seriously wrong.  He looks at Mandy, can instantly tell his sister has been put through it.

“I need to talk to you,” Sully says to Mickey, a serious look in his eyes.

Mickey glances at Mark who’s studying them closely, before looking back at a clearly upset Sully. “My office,” Mickey motions with his head for him to follow him.

The door closes behind Mickey once they’re in his office, the click of it closing not even fully done before Sully starts to talk.  “Look, I know your sister won’t listen to me,” Sully starts as he sits in on the leather sofa in the office, “but I know she’ll listen to you.”

Confused, Mickey takes a seat at the opposite end of the sofa, presses his fingertips deep into the soft cushions in anticipation.  “The hell is this about?” he asks.

“I don’t want her taking money to Terry anymore,” he blurts out.  He can already see the drop in Mickey’s face at the mention of his father’s name.  “It’s bad for her Mickey.  She can’t take it anymore, and she shouldn’t have to.  If only you could hear the way he talks to her, see how he – “

“I know because he does it to me too,” Mickey cuts him off.  “Just multiply what you see with her times ten.”

Sully grows quiet for a few moments, lets the uncertainty do all the talking in the room.  He focuses his eyes on the twisted pattern in the carpet, likens it to the life of a Milkovich sibling.  He knows it’s not his place to speak on such matters, but his love for Mandy makes him forget about his place, only makes him concerned for her. He looks back up at this best friend, sees him worrying his bottom lip with his thumb.

“Look, man,” Sully begins to talk again, “I know I have no place, I know Mandy refuses not to share this burden with you.  But truth is, I don’t think either of you should do it anymore.  But either way this swings, I can’t have her going anymore. It’s – “

“Dangerous,” Mickey cuts him off again.  “Tell me something I don’t fucking know Sully.”  Mickey rubs both of his hands down his face then looks back at Sully. “I don’t want this for her anymore either,” he says lowly, “but we don’t have a choice.”

“But you do,” Sully challenges.  

“Oh we do, huh?” Mickey ask rhetorically.  “Says who? You?”  A laugh escapes Mickey’s mouth, somewhat reminiscent of his own father’s, which momentarily causes a wave of concern to travel through his own body. “You have no fucking clue.” Mickey’s voice is now more serious than ever, a slight edge in his tone.

“Give me one then.”

“Last time we gave ourselves a  _choice_ ,” Mickey begins, placing a harsh emphasis on the word choice, “my father showed up at my previous job and put a bullet in my side.”  At that moment, Mickey holds up his shirt, and points to a circular scar right beneath his ribcage.  “Only reason why he didn’t get Mandy, is because the cops got to the high bastard first.”  

“He tried to kill you?” Sully asks, genuinely shocked.  

“Tried?  That asshole succeeded,” Mickey says as he lowers his t-shirt.  “I died the day he made me, or should have, according to him.  Each attempt he makes on my life is just that piece of shit’s way of trying to right his wrong.”

“Shit Mickey, I didn’t know,” Sully says with his hand over his mouth.

“Yeah well, big, macho Milkovich men don’t want fagots for sons.  I’m a walking, talking abortion that never happened.”  

“How did I not know this?” Sully asks confused.  “I’ve been your friend for years.”

“I asked Mandy to keep it quiet,” Mickey answers.  “Remember that time I disappeared for like a week, and I told you I had to have my appendix removed and not to make a big fucking deal about me not telling you? That was when it happened.”

Sully grows quiet again, re-focusing on the carpet.  It’s beginning to make him dizzy.  He looks up at Mickey, pleading in his eyes.  “But that’s all the more reason why Mandy needs out.”

“I agree with you,” Mickey says as he makes his way to open his door, “but it has to happen slowly.  I’ll be damned if he tries to kill her next.”

When Mickey exits his office, he spots Mandy talking to Mark.  As he walks over, they discontinue talking.  “Everything alright?” Mark asks as Mickey pick his camera back up off of the table.  

“Copasetic,” Mickey responds as he begins to power on the camera.  “Just time for me to get back to work if I’m going to make my next shoot on time.  It’s on location at Port Chicago.”

“Which campaign?” Mark asks, already knowing which one.  Perhaps he just needs to hear Mickey say which campaign, but more so he needs to hear him say with  _who_.

“Your personal favorite, Prada men’s leather jackets, Fall collection,” Mickey says somewhat sarcastically as he signals for the model to get herself ready after her five minute break which ran ten minutes longer than expected.  

“Models?” Mark presses.

“Oh you know, Trevor, Alex, …” Mickey trails off just as he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.  He pulls out his phone, sees a text message right before naming the last model.  “Ian,” he says, the tone in his voice slightly different when he mentions the red head.

“I see,” Mark says as he walks up to Mickey.  He places his hand behind his neck and cresses it before walking away.  “Have fun,” he says as he waves his hand behind his head, an acknowledging hum from Mickey’s mouth getting lost in the sound of the clicking camera.

After a few shots, Mickey lets his camera hang on his shoulder as her reads his text message.

_[Ian 12:01pm: hey Mick, what should i wear 2day?]_

Mickey quickly types a response, pounding out the first thing that comes to his mind.

_[Mickey 12:10pm: whatever makes u look good]_

His phone buzzes again almost instantly after hitting send.

_[Ian 12:11pm: i don’t think that’s legal *devil smiley*]_

Mickey doesn’t respond, but the text makes him smile, almost blush.  He quickly wipes the look from his face when he sees Mark reemerge from his office and grab his jacket.  He snaps a few arbitrary photos of the model who’s barely posing when he begins clicking away.

“I have some business meetings to attend,” Mark says as he exits the studio, grabbing the keys to his Mercedes on his way out.

Mickey nods then shoots a glance at Mandy and Sully who are looking at him funny.  His phone buzzes again and he reached for it without hesitation.

_[Ian 12:16pm: see ya later Mick.]_

Mickey finds himself smiling again, looks over his shoulder at his sister and her boyfriend again to find them smiling as well.  He presses his lips together in a serious line.  There’s no way they know who is texting him, so he wipes the paranoia out of his mind, puts his serious photographer’s hat on.  He goes back to shooting the photos, but the smile inevitably fights its way back to the surface.

He acquiesces, lets is ride.

*

Lip slumps down in the armchair by the TV, cracking open a can of beer, and taking a long sip.  With a satisfied sigh he leans back and watches as Ian hurries around his apartment. He’s trying on different shirts and jeans that all look the same to Lip, but Ian insists they are different.

“You’re pretty serious about this, huh?!”

Ian spins around, in the middle of pulling another white shirt over his head.  It fits a bit tighter than the other ones.  He smoothens it down a bit, looking up at his brother.

“Yeah,” Ian answers as he tugs a bit more at the hem.  “So, does this look good?”

Lip rolls his eyes, takes another sip of his beer, and when Ian shoots him a glare he says, “It looks just as good as all the others.  You want him to see your abs?  Leave this on.”

Ian nods and is just about to grab a pair of jeans, when he turns back around, a finger pointed at Lip. “I am  _not_  dressing up to impress Mickey.”

Lip snorts. “Yeah, of course you’re not.”

Ian deeply rolls his eyes, but ignores his brother and proceeds to rummage through his few pairs of jeans.  Lip watches him again, laughter subsiding, until his brows are furrowed.  He cannot stop himself from saying what he knows annoys Ian, because he has heard it so many times before.  

“Just be careful, okay?” he offers his younger brother.

“I’m going to a photoshoot Lip, not war,” Ian says absentmindedly, not realizing how serious Lip is.  When he turns back around, he catches Lip’s pleading look.  He relents.

“Look, I’m good.  I’m not…” Ian trails off, a reminiscence tripping up his words.  “They are not doing anything to me,” he finishes.

Lip moves his mouth like a fish on dry land for a moment, his mouth stuck in an awkward half-open position.  Eventually he closes it with a nod, lips pressed together tightly.  Ian knows Lip is only worried.  He has every right to be, but it’s been a few years since he’s done something stupid, since  _that_ job and  _that_ day. 

Before Ian’s diagnosis, he went through a manic phase.  It was all high highs and infinite boosts of energy.  He got a job at a shady gay club, the Fairy Tale, dancing in just a pair of gold booty shorts.  He loved the attention, the eventually false sense of freedom he felt, and the little treats his customers would give him – little treats in the form of small, colored pills, all different and each with their own danger promise.  

He was reckless, not aware of the jeopardy he put himself in, always ignored his siblings’ pleads and his father’s worry until  _something_  happened.

_Ian swallows the little pink pill a handsome stranger hands him. They’re standing by the bar, Ian having just finished his shift.  The man bearing gifts isn’t that much older than Ian, for once.  He is tall, his dark eyes mysterious; Ian can’t stop running his hands through his thick black hair. The man is charming as he is enigmatic, whispers sweet nothings into his ear.  Ian isn’t the type for it, but when he’s relaxed and free like this, he doesn’t mind.  He loves the attention, feels like he’s in control of his body.  He moves it just as he pleases, decides who touches it and what he puts into it._

_But the little pink pills has other plans._

_He feels his head spin slightly.  He ignores it initially, thinking it must just be the beginning of the effects of the pill he swallowed. The mystery man, not yet with a name, wraps an arm around Ian’s waist, asks him if they should take it back to his place.  Ian agrees and doesn’t even realize that the guy basically carries him out of the club.  For a quick second Ian’s glad he’s already changed into his normal clothes.  But the thought vanishes just as quickly as it came._

_The next thing Ian remembers is his dry throat.  It hurts and it feels like it is covered in dust.  When he slowly opens his eyes, he thinks it might literally be covered in dust.  He’s on the ground, from the sounds of it not far from the clubs of Boystown.  He coughs weakly and before he knows it he is hunched over, puking his guts out._

_At least that is what it feels like._

_When he’s done, he heaves for a while before he feels the hammering pain in his temples.  Groaning, he falls back and sits with his back against the brick wall.  He takes a moment, breathes deep, before he opens his eyes again.  He recognizes the bit of street he can see at the end of the alley.  It’s only around the corner from Fairy Tale.  He searches for his backpack, but doesn’t find it.  He groans in frustration, but he isn’t surprised.  When he tries to stand, a stabbing pain shoots through his side._

_“Fuck,” he hisses, his hand shooting up to hold his side. A moment later he lifts his shirt up to reveal a massive bruise.  He stares at it for a long while, then reaches his hand up to his face.  His lip is split and his nose and right eye seem to be starting to swell.  The guy didn’t just drug and rob him, he beat him up. Ian stills, tries to feel his entire body, tries to find out what other damage the man might have done.  When he doesn’t feel the ache he was most afraid of, he lets out a sigh of relief._

_Ian runs a hand over his face before he finally gets up slowly, with the help of the brick wall.  He makes his way back to the club, passes the security without a word, and makes his way behind the bar.  There is a small office behind it and he sits down in the chair to call Lip._

_His brother arrives twenty minutes later, silently wraps Ian into his arms and takes him home.  He doesn’t ask him what happened, simply takes care of him and nothing more.  Ian thinks maybe Lip already knows, perhaps expected it all along._

That was the night Lip made it his mission to look out for Ian, protecting him from everything that could harm his little brother.

Since Ian’s first manic phase, there were a few significant  _‘that day’s’_ he went through that no one seems to be able to forget, but refuses to talk about.  He feels the tension he leaves behind whenever he leaves their house, or his apartment alone.  They immediately worry whenever he meets someone new, every time he finds someone that interests and excites him.  And it’s not that they can’t shake it, they refuse to.  It’s a Gallagher’s innate nature to hold on to things of the past and apply them to the present.  Ian can no longer remember a time where his family didn’t constantly worry about him.  He’s gotten used to it, he supposes, but it sometimes still aggravates him.

He wants them to trust him, needs them to let him live and breathe and make mistakes without it being blamed on his disorder.  But his family doesn’t know better, the shadow of his mother thick and foreboding.  They don’t forget easily and need more time to adjust.  It’s imperative they learn that Ian is capable to comprehend beyond their expectations.

It’s surprising, really, because he was the one who didn’t want to admit to his disorder at first. He was the one who didn’t want to hear it, refused to believe it.  Now, it seems he’s the only one who knows how to accept it.  He is, after all, the person who is living with it.  He stopped expecting full understanding from his family, their vicarious experiences with Monica enough to tarnish anyone’s view on mental illness.

So Ian walks over to Lip and pulls him into a tight hug.  Lip reciprocates and lets out a long breath.

“Thank you, Lip,” Ian says, “for everything.  But I’m good, and this is good, for me.”  He pulls away with a wide, honest smile on his face and Lip can’t help but smile back.

“Call me when you’re done.  I wanna hear all about it,” Lip offers.  Ian nods and grins at his brother.  “By the way, take the dark jeans,” he says as he sits back down, lifting his beer bottle back to his lips.  “It shows off your ass.”

Ian flips him off making Lip laugh, but he takes the said jeans and pulls them on.  Five minutes later, he’s out of his apartment, ready to meet Mickey for his first real photoshoot, with the photographer everyone is always talking about.

*

He sees his back as he approaches, shoulders broad and the sun highlighting the way his muscles flex ever so slightly as he angles his camera.  He’s wearing a long-sleeved, royal blue t-shirt fitted just right and a pair of jeans – dark blue, just like his.  Ian smiles as he watches Mickey signaling two other models as they pose, a third on the sidelines, his silhouette surrounded by Lake Michigan. As he gets closer to the photographer, he notices an obviously new and rather flashy watch on his wrist.  Ian doesn’t know why he notices it, but he does, and just as quickly as he spots it, he forgets about it that much quicker when Mickey sees him out of his periphery.

He spots Sully adjusting two large parabolic umbrellas, pointing them towards three other models. Ian nods his head when he sees Sully greet him with a wave.  He then turns his attention back to Mickey and smiles, the corners of his mouth reaching further to his ears, in sync with the way Mickey’s eyebrow raises.  “Hey Mick,” Ian greets, a little too much enthusiasm in his voice, but he doesn’t care.  He stands next to him, his 6’0” frame nearly towering over Mickey’s 5’7” one.

“You’re late,” Mickey says coolly.  He doesn’t fully look at Ian, but manages to quickly scan him from his chest down, lingers on his jeans for a good while.   _One point, Lip._ He snaps his head back forward when he realizes he’s staring and barks at one of the models.  “This is Port Chicago and we’re shooting for Prada, Trevor!” he yells at the model with strawberry blonde hair.  “This ain’t no Chippendales male review!”  The model frowns and deflates his chest, quits doing racy poses.  

Ian feels a slight tingle down his spine, both taken aback yet drawn to Mickey’s brazen nature. “I’m sorry, getting to the Port took longer than I expected.”  He stands awkwardly next to Mickey, unsure if he should move.

Mickey slowly turns to look at him, studies his face for a few seconds.  “Did you come here to model or bathe in the sun?”

“Right, ok,” Ian responds as he looks at Mickey slowly. “Where do you want me?”

Mickey pauses as if he’s fishing through his head for a response.  He swallows hard and clears his throat just as Sully stands next to him and crosses his arms with a knowing look written all over his face.  Mickey can feel his friend laughing without sound as he probably mocks his sudden dumbness from a trivial question.  “Uh…” Mickey trails off as he looks over towards the other models.  “Water,” he finally says, his throat scratchy.  He clears it again as Ian tilts his head to the side curiously.  “I want you by the water,” Mickey clarifies.  He looks back at Ian, who has the biggest grin on his face.

“Sure thing,” Ian says confidently.  He nods and makes his way over towards the other models, leaving Mickey and Sully behind.

Sully moves closer to Mickey, lets a chuckle slip.  “Don’t say shit asshole,” Mickey bites as he shoots a stabbing glare at Sully.  The look misses, lands somewhere in the distance as Sully continues to laugh, unfazed by the pointed glare.

“God could that moment be any better?” Sully laughs.   _“Where do you want me?”_ he mocks in his best Ian impression.  He pats Mickey on the back a few times.  “It’s ok, it happens to the best of us.  We all get smitten sometimes, but damn you were like, a second away from a Freudian slip.”

“Shut the fuck up Sully,” Mickey huffs.  “You have no clue what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Oh but I do.  You know exactly where you want him and it ain’t near no water that’s for sure.”

Mickey turns and looks at Sully, a warning in his eyes.  Or maybe it’s guilt.  Either way, it’s a dead giveaway that behind his pause was more than a dry throat. “You gonna leave this shit alone,” he cautions.  “Cease and fuckin’ desist.  Now go do your job.  Go shuffle some models around or something before I snap your face – without a fuckin’ camera.”

Raising both of his hands in surrender, Sully back away.  “Alright, alright,” he acquiesces, “Sheesh I didn’t mean to piss you off…with the truth.”  

Mickey rolls his eyes as Sully walks away.  He turns his attention back to Ian, whose eyes are on him like a target.  The red head smiles and runs his hands down his shirt to straighten it out, just as Sully passes him a very expensive Prada leather jacket to put on.  Ian does so, with ease and grace, his eyes never leaving Mickey.

Eye contact is something Mickey’s always struggled with, and while it should make him uncomfortable, he finds himself not being able to look away.  Ian’s stare is piercing, so he uses his best defense – the same defense he’s been using since he was a young boy.  Mickey immediately lifts up his camera and blocks his right eye, focusing through the optical lens.  Things are always easier when you’re not viewing them with both of your eyes.

He focuses the zoom just as Sully makes his way back next to him.  “They’re ready for shooting,” Sully says as he stands slightly behind Mickey. He watches as the photographer stills himself as if is concentrating on something.  “What are you focusing on?” Sully asks in a professional capacity, but with a motive that has nothing to do with work, or a photographer’s trained eye.

Still looking through his camera, Mickey lets his shoulders relax, softening his angle.  “Exactly what I need to,” Mickey responds cryptically.

Sully manages to peep over Mickey’s shoulder, getting a glimpse of the camera’s digital display as Mickey backs his eye away from the lens to take a look at the shot.  In the screen is the perfect up-close shot of a silhouette of red hair, soothed by Lake Michigan.

*  

 

“Good job for your first shoot,” Sully pats Ian on the back.  

“Thanks,” Ian responds with a smile.  He looks behind himself, sees Mickey packing up some of the equipment.  One of the models says something to him that makes him scowl.  Ian finds himself admiring the look on his face, the slight line that forms in the middle of his forehead when he frowns, the way his mouth hangs slightly open right before he hurls an insult.  And Ian can’t make out exactly what Mickey’s just said, but he’s certain there was a  _‘fuck’_  thrown in there a few times.

The model, the Chippendale one with the strawberry blonde hair, waves off whatever Mickey’s just said with a grin and saunters off.  Obviously he’s worked with the photographer before and is used to his innate grumpiness. Mickey stands and picks up a few bags, and nods at Sully as he grabs the other equipment, and starts to walks off.

Ian slips into his own jacket as he hurries to follow Mickey.  The studio isn’t far and he assumes that is where Mickey’s heading.  As the other two models walk in a different direction, Ian decides on a whim to walk with Mickey.  When he catches up with him, Mickey only raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

“What?

Instead of answering, Ian takes the handles to one of the bags Mickey is carrying and pulls it out of his hand.  The grumpy photographer rolls his eyes, looks Ian up and down incredulously.

“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey huffs, “Give me my bag back.”

Ian slings it over his shoulder instead, and grins defiantly at Mickey. “Ya know, it looks really heavy.”

“It’s fine, and I can carry a bag.  Don’t you have to go home anyway?” Mickey says trying to sound annoyed, but Ian’s wide grin is distracting him.

Ian shakes his head, “Nah, I have time.”

Mickey sighs in defeat.  It was a long day and he isn’t in the mood to argue.  He also doesn’t mind Ian’s company as much as he likes to pretend he does. So, Ian walks with him back to the studio.  They’re silent for most of it, shooting each other short looks and small smiles that make Mickey’s skin tingle.  He doesn’t know if he likes the effect Ian seems to have on him already – or if he despises it.  Truth is, he despises the fact that he likes it.

He can’t bring himself to tell Ian to fuck off though, so he goes with it.  The walk back to the studio isn’t long anyway and Mickey is kind of glad that he doesn’t have to carry everything himself.  When they arrive, Mickey pushes his hands into his pockets to find the keys, as Ian leans against the wall next to the door.

“So, I got a question for you,” Ian says as he watches Mickey.

Mickey just raises his eyebrows and opens the door, leading Ian inside to a room he hasn’t been in yet.  A storage room, he supposes.

“My brother Carl,” he says, “he’s getting into a bit of trouble at the moment.  He’s sixteen, really into guns and stuff.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey says, obviously amused. “I was kinda the same at that age.  When I didn’t have a camera in my hand, it was either a glock or a magnum.”

Ian is a bit surprised about Mickey sharing information so willingly.  Judging by the resting frown on his face, he assumed he wouldn’t get more than a grunt or two out of him.  Ian smiles, but decides not to mention it.

“Yeah well, I need my little brother to see that you can shoot with more than guns.  I mean I would like to get him into a hobby.  Just something to keep him…distracted.”

Mickey is quiet this time, waiting for Ian to elaborate.

“Anyway, I was wondering if I could bring him to the studio some time. I don’t know, maybe next time we’re shooting here?”

This time Mickey’s silence makes Ian a bit nervous.  He really thinks this whole photography thing could be something Carl would enjoy.  And having him see that someone like Mickey as a photographer, may actually be a good influence – he hopes.  But he also knows how serious Mickey takes his work.

Mickey interrupts Ian’s nervous thoughts when he shrugs and says, “Yeah why the hell not?  Bring him by next time.  He’ll be your responsibility though, man,” he warns.  “If there’s anything missing or broken at the end of the session _, you_  pay for it.”

Ian grins. “Thanks Mick.”

Mickey rolls his eyes at the nickname and bites his lip to keep from smiling.

“Don’t you have to ask your boss, though?” Ian asks as Mickey leads him back out of the room and towards the exit.

Mickey stops for a second, so short Ian doesn’t realize it, as he is reminded of his boss.   _Mark_.  He barely keeps a long groan from escaping his throat.  He knows Mark is a bit sceptic about Ian and he knows him too well.  Letting Ian bring his brother to a shoot will definitely make Mark suspicious, and Mickey will have to deal with it.  When he looks over at Ian though, sees the way he is still grinning widely, with the light of the setting sun streaming through the windows, lighting up his hair, and in that tight white shirt, Mickey can’t bring himself to care. He’ll deal with Mark – if he has to.

So he smiles back at Ian and says, “Don’t worry about it.  Bring him.”

“I will,” he says as he backs away.  He turns to walk out of the studio, waving his hand behind his head before disappearing out the door and back into the city.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you to Nuria for writing this with me! Seriously guys, she is so amazing to work with, and makes this whole writing experience easier than it has been for me lately. :) I hope you enjoyed the prologue, and there is more to come. :)))


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